Face the Day
by TheRoyalAce
Summary: They've escaped the Gallery. They're safe. Now, all they have to deal with are recurring nightmares, constant paranoia, and possible hallucinations. Should be a piece of cake. One-shot collection about life after the Art Museum. Ib and Garry centric. Many dark themes involved—reader discretion is advised. Inspired by Dfsemina's Aftershock. Title Changed.
1. Chapter 1

It was about a month after I escaped. Life felt different, somehow. Priorities changed. Things that were once important to me suddenly seemed stupid, past grudges felt petty, and the smallest pleasures made me sick to my stomach.

I remember the moments right after I left the gallery. When I realized that what had felt like at least a week in the fabricated world had only been about an hour in reality. I often caught myself wondering whether or not my time at the gallery was actually real. Maybe forgetting to take my meds had a severe

effect on me that day. Or maybe I'd just finally gone off the deep end.

There were so many ways I could explain the whole event away. I wanted to believe it wasn't real. I wanted to wake up in the morning feeling refreshed; I wanted to walk to work without glancing over my shoulders constantly, and eat full meals at lunch and not stumble over my words or feel suspicious of every person who came within five feet of me. I wanted to walk home from work in the evenings without seeing things lurking in every shadow.

I wanted to love art. I wanted to look at a painting and see it for its beauty instead of thinking about how fast it might be able to move and devour me if it were to climb out of its frame. I wanted to be able to pick up a pallet knife and use it for its intended purpose, not feel like I was holding a weapon.

Oh, how I wanted to smoke again. To flick open my lighter and light a cigarette. I wished I wouldn't get so lost in my own thoughts whenever I saw the wavering flame. I could stare into it for hours if I allowed myself, replaying those horrible moments over and over again in my head.

Some days, it wasn't so bad. I would only have a few minor panic attacks, but I'd be able to get a grip on myself before it went too far. And I'd think, maybe it's getting better. Maybe I can get through this.

Then, I'd wake up screaming from another nightmare, with a warped perception of reality. I wouldn't recognize my bedroom, or my clothes, or my ticking clock, or my own deep voice. It was just me, the cold, and the shadows crawling nearer and nearer.

I would attack anything within my reach. My drapes, my alarm clock, my blanket. I even had to start tying my hair back at night, because I woke up one time to it in my eyes and, in the darkness, thought it was a doll's hair. It sent me into a frenzy and I didn't realize that I was trying to yank it off of me until the pain became nearly unbearable.

Another time, I thought my pillowcase was the dress of the large doll and, once I jerked out of my panicked haze, the pillow was in shreds and I had a gash on one hand, and my pocket knife the other. In all honesty, I still had no idea how I got the knife, but ever since then, I slept with it on my nightstand. Safety precaution, I'd tell myself.

The blue dolls truly were what plagued me the most. I saw them in everything. Their messages were in graffiti, their eyes were in every photograph, their smiles were on children. I could ignore it for a short time, but I could never truly escape.

Everything would be so much simpler if it had all been a product of my fragile mind. I could grab an appointment with my psychiatrist, get on some stronger meds, and that would hopefully be the end of it. No problem. Or, at least, not one that couldn't be fixed.

Sometimes, when I was especially desperate for some sleep or a moment of peace, I could convince myself that it was true. The gallery was a dream, the roses were a dream, Mary and her painting were a dream, the colorful women, the spitting painting, the sketchbook area, _dolls_. Even Ib was just a figment of my imagination—a guide within my own mind. A fabrication to help me feel protected. I was insane, and that was okay. I had finally snapped, and I probably needed professional help, but I was fine with that. Because I was safe, physically, and nothing in that cursed gallery had actually happened.

But in the mornings, after a cold shower, my head would finally clear. I would find bruises all over my body. I could never tell whether they were residual from my time in that cursed place or from hurting myself in my sleep, but I knew. I knew there was no way that this was all just my twisted imagination. As much as I wished it was.

I knew deep down that something awful had happened to me. I had survived hell, and it changed me in ways I could never have anticipated.

And I wasn't the only one who experienced it.

* * *

Author's Note:

I've read Dfsemina's _Aftershock_ so many times; it's one of the best _Ib_ stories of all time, in my opinion, even though it was never finished. If you haven't read it, I strongly advise you to check it out. There's likely to be many elements in this story that will probably be very similar to _Aftershock_, but I'm definitely trying to make this my own thing. That story just _really_ inspired me.

This is my first story on this site. I'm honestly not sure how often I'll be updating and, when I do, they will probably be fairly short chapters. At least until I get a better idea of where this story is going.

Also, in case it wasn't obvious from this first chapter, there's a lot of introspection in this story. There will be dialogue and action soon and, you know, a plot. But one of my biggest goals for this story is to take a close look into the minds of Garry and Ib after everything they've been through.


	2. Chapter 2

Sitting up in bed, Ib stared blankly at her hands in her lap. Every time she had that dream, she relived one of the worst moments in her short life.

In the seconds after she awoke, her mind still in a haze, Ib could have sworn that there were still bits of paint staining her fingers. Even after she blinked and they disappeared, she could still feel the itch of the dry flakes on her skin.

Ever since the Incident, she had dreams—nightmares—of everything that had happened in that dark gallery. She dreamed of the slaughter in the Liar's Room—of the poor figure in brown who only wanted to help her. She dreamed of the hide-and-seek stick man. Hanging replicas of herself, and fake mothers, and Mary burning, and ashes and fire.

She used to wake up screaming. Her parents would rush into her room and Ib would sob into laps until she fell back into a fitful sleep. Sometimes they would ask her about it in the mornings, but Ib would only stare at her feet and tug at the skin of her bottom lip until it bled. When they considered taking her to a therapist or psychiatrist, she tried to reassure them that everything was fine—she had watched a scary movie that was too much for her. Ib made sure to smile as often and as big as possible whenever she was with her parents. She laughed at her father's jokes and kissed her mother's cheek every morning. She did everything she could to prove to them that nothing was wrong, nothing serious. And after a long and tiring day of keeping up such a heavy facade, Ib would retire to her room for a short period of relief, before facing the demons of the night once again.

Ib strained against the urge to scratch at the back of her hand—to pick at the flakes of paint that were not there. Instead, she clenched her fists and pressed them against her eyes. She wouldn't cry, of course. She had stopped crying a week ago, when sadness departed and numbness took its place. Now, she just wished that the deep, empty feeling in her chest would leave.

She wondered if she would ever forgive herself. She wondered if Mary would have forgiven her. Did she still love her, or did the betrayal cause her to hate her in those last few seconds? What about Garry? Did he hate her now? Was that why he hadn't come for her like he'd promised?

With a sigh, Ib allowed her fists to drop back into her lap. She wouldn't blame Garry if that was the reason. Why would he want to be around her if she didn't even want to be around herself?

Ib was just crawling out of her bed when she heard her mother call for her.

"Ib, honey, come down for breakfast! We wouldn't want you to be late for your first day of school now, would we?"

Ib barely forced out a mumbled, '_coming, Mother,'_ before making her way to her bathroom. Inside, she allowed her body to go through the motions of her morning routine, never once paying attention to what she was doing and firmly keeping her eyes locked on the tiled ground. Brush teeth. Wash face. Change clothes. Tie back hair. Don't think, just do.

It wasn't until she was just about to leave that she caught her own gaze in the mirror.

A lot had changed in the last month. The whites of her eyes had begun to take a similar shade of red as her irises. Just underneath her eyes, dark smears of purple marred her face, the bruise-like circles making Ib's sleeping situation obvious to all. Those were not the only changes, however. Within three weeks, she had lost most of her remaining baby fat, causing her cheeks to sink in ever so slightly. Her lips seemed perpetually chapped. The cracks and tears never had the chance to fully heal before she ripped and bit them raw once more. She had the appearance of a frail, sickly thing and it was likely only a matter of time before she pushed her parents' worrying over the edge.

Ib broke eye contact with her corpse of a reflection. Time to face the day.

* * *

More introspection. The story should be picking up the pace soon, though.


End file.
